The Art of Story Telling
by Sulcal
Summary: Love has never been what it was like in the books. Jiraiya knows that much. He just wishes it'd stop happening. [AU] [JiraKaka]
1. Home

Notes: So… yeah. My first multi-chaptered fic in a long time… special thanks goes to wolvknight for his help in helping me organize my ideas. He's been a huge help and a constant encouragement! Go on, go check him out! And yes, for those who are wondering, you read the summary right.

WARNINGS: Boy/boy love (shounen-ai) often offends people. You who are like that can just hit the back button. Don't like, don't read.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

_Prologue…_

Love is nothing like in stories. If anything, that's something Jiraiya knew from experience— he's written enough about it.

It isn't flowers and dates and walks in the moonlight, or butterflies in the stomach, or sweet phone calls late at night, or bright anticipation. Never, in all the times he's observed it, has love ever been anything like that. Not serious love. Silly, frivolous things like that was just simple infatuation as far as he was concerned. A fleeting thing designed for the minds of readers, pretty words twisted into some form of poetic romance. A dream. Nothing more. Nothing less.

No, if anything, it hurt.

Full of fights and twists and times where you just want to throw up. The absolute _ache_ in the chest just feels like someone had gone and ripped your heart out right out of your chest, tossed it to the ground, then stomped on it for good measure. Worse than when the flu nails you in time for work on Monday right after a crappy vacation. _That's_ what love was like. Painful. Messy. Delirious.

And somehow still good.

Jiraiya had long ago conceived the idea that people in love were masochists.

In a sense, that had been what made him leave in the first place. He thought he'd been in love, and it'd done nothing but cause grief.

Chapter One Home 

Jiraiya stood in the new apartment, frowning at the boxes sprawled across the floor, arms crossed over his chest. For a long moment, he continued to stare at them before turning away to help Tsunade sift through what little the owned of kitchenware.

"Remind me again why I even bothered with this in the first place?" she muttered as she rolled the sleeves of her green coat up to her elbows.

He gave her a flat look. "Because I'm the one paying your 'I-owe-yous'."

Tsunade rolled her eyes, and that had been the end of that.

In all actuality, Jiraiya knew that wasn't the reason. But he chose not to think about it. Instead, he turned his attention to the box full of cups. Combined, they didn't own much. Enough to support two people just fine, but mostly because neither liked having extravagant things just lying around. A good-sized two-bedroom apartment was enough. No need to complicate things. So the two unpacked in silence, putting away belongings, sitting back onto the carpeted floor with a bottle of sake between them, the quiet dragging on with nothing but the sound of the winter wind rattling the windows a little. Night had nearly fallen.

"It's strange… being back…"

Jiraiya looked up from his cup of sake, blinking. He'd hardly touched it. Tsunade was lying on her back and staring at the ceiling.

"I thought," she said in a simple tone, waving a hand as if to wash the matter off, "that maybe things would have changed. Nothing really has."

He didn't say anything.

She was right. Nothing in the lace had changed. The streets were almost exactly the same, the people were the same. Even the way the houses had sat huddled together against the ongoing winter weather when they'd first arrive earlier that day had been exactly as they he remembered it all being. Almost nothing had changed. Not even in over twenty years.

"Going to go see Shizune?" Jiraiya when Tsunade sat up and put her empty cup down on the floor.

"Sure. Why the hell not?" she muttered back.

Tsunade was gone, even before the sun finally dipped down below the empty sky, darkening it, clouds rolling in.

Part of Jiraiya wondered if it was out of celebration or grief. Maybe a little of both, all things considered. After all, neither he nor Tsunade had managed to find him.

It was just easier to give up on certain things, he supposed, and took another long drink.

That night, Jiraiya spent his first night back home trying to sleep instead of going out like he'd planned. Old friends could wait for a little while longer.

-----

In all actuality, he had been making a good living. Most people didn't believe that being a novelist could be so lucrative. It had seemed like a silly idea at the time, but he'd needed money, and it'd sounded like fun.

Jiraiya supposed it was his way of grieving. Tsunade gambled and drank and generally made a lot of commotion; mostly because she's afraid of uncomfortable silence. She's not a bad woman— he's known her far too long to think too badly of her now. And Jiraiya… well, Jiraiya wrote. He'd spent the better part of his life dabbling in it, and had finally come to perfect it.

Icha Icha was created mostly out of grief.

It's started when he'd met Hatake Sakumo. A gangly younger man with a stern air about him. They hadn't liked each other— Sakumo and Orochimaru. Not at the time. But it'd been Sakumo who had encouraged him to go after the guy when he just up and left, leaving him and Tsunade behind for what seemed like no reason at all.

Jiraiya spent years looking, drifting.

But he never found him.

It seemed pointless, now, and he honestly couldn't sleep with the faces of memory staring down at him from his dreams and head. Not at first. But, now, that his art is slowly starting to come to its panicle, he found that there were a lot of things he didn't notice but should have.

Story telling is an art. And it is ever rarely wonderful, ever rarely complete. It's something Jiraiya has come to understand and accept— it's his own way of grieving over the things that seemed unimportant back when he only saw the world in black and white.

-----

The morning came with grey light filtering in from the bare bedroom window, snow flurrying outside and the whole apartment generally very cold.

Jiraiya pulled himself up from his bed with a groan, scratching at his hair and looking around for a moment, unable to recognize it all for a moment. Boxes were still stacked up in one corner of the room and the dresser was, for a reason he couldn't really remember, on its side, a pathetic heap of aged wood. Empty.

Jiraiya placed it back upright; scratched; yawned; walked out of the small room.

He poked his head in the bedroom across the hall. Tsunade was sleeping, most likely not getting up until late afternoon. With a sigh, the man retrieved some headache medicine from a box and placed the bottle down on the box lying next to her bed before shuffling off to the kitchen, bones aching.

But it was already too late. His daily routine was off. He knew it would have been anyways, and when he glanced into the cabinets to find it was a big pain in the ass to figure out that, damn it all, he'd forgotten to get groceries. Great. That meant he'd have to brave the weather to go get breakfast.

"I'm too old for this," he muttered to himself.

Ten minutes later found him going down the steps, pouring salt as he went. He'd slipped once, and didn't need it to happen again, with a bruise forming rapidly against one creaking knee.

Jiraiya should have suspected it. Today was going to be a bad day. He should have checked with Tsunade— she a good indicator of fortune and the first day the man realized it, it was almost to late. The guilt had just been waiting for him, standing right outside his door like some lost puppy. She had it slightly easier. Tsunade wasn't a woman who regretted much, and it wasn't like she had much to return to anyways (she'll grieve, Jiraiya knows, and will move on). It was part of why they stayed near each other: a silent agreement…

She'd won a good sum, it seemed, and that meant bad things.

He didn't have it so easy.

Jiraiya had a great deal to regret.

At first, he didn't see her in the slightest, huddled up in his thick coat and scarf, hands tucked into his warm pockets, grumbling as he walked down the block to the small, local grocery store, feeling too much like an old man for his own taste as he pushed through people and apologized half-heartedly if he jostled someone. The snow was light enough not to worry about and probably wouldn't last long with how easily it melted when reaching the streets, cars slowly slushing through it. But the wind was still there. Freezing. Making the man's joints ache as he eventually reached the automatic doors. Jiraiya didn't even realize it until it was too late, the cold wind gusting around the doors as they glided open.

His shoulder crashed against hers as she rushed out to beat the traffic of the people along the sidewalk and her bags went everywhere. His arm shot out to steady her from hitting the ground, words on his lips—

"What are you— Mom! Hey, hey, don't crush the lettuce!"

The woman was a redhead, with slight laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, and Jiraiya felt a sudden pang of a monster called Familiarity in the back of his head, and a blonde kid was sweeping up cans and groceries from the ground. But he brushed it aside. The city hasn't changed much, at least not out of the obvious ways cities change (_growing up and around, a twisting metal jungle_, the artist in Jiraiya thinks).

Grunting, he scowled and bent to pick up a can that had rolled near him, only for pale fingers to close over it before he could grasp it.

"Excuse me," the owner to that hand said.

There were three of them total, Jiraiya noted, despite the fact that his whole damn morning was now ruined more than he'd thought it'd be. The redhead, a blonde, the pale-haired man tugging the grocery bags from the redhead's arms and…

Jiraiya's thoughts stopped just short.

-----

If there was anything Hatake Kakashi hated more, it was getting up in the morning. He'd always forget exactly where he was, staring at the ceiling blearily, blinking several times. One minute he was asleep and the next awake. There wasn't much of an in between. Well, usually, anyways. This time there were hands gently shaking him awake, and one of the dogs squirmed out from under his arm, him blinking rapidly.

Kushina smile at him. "About time you got up. Come on, you're going to end up sleeping all day if you don't get up." Her warm hands reached into the covers and pulled Pakkun from him, the pug squirming at the cold air. "Come on. Naruto is going to help you walk the dogs this morning— Iruka had to work early."

Uzumaki Kushina, in Kakashi's opinion, was too nice of a woman. She looked far younger than she was, save for the laugh and slight worry lines around the corners of her eyes and lips. Always nice enough to wake him up if he didn't get up. Her auburn eyes regarded him as the man pulled himself up tiredly, her red hair a complete mess and her pajamas still on. Poor woman, he thinks sometimes, she does too much.

He'd been living with her for a long time. It was just the way she was.

"PT take it out of you yesterday?" she asked softly, cuddling Pakkun to her and patting one of the other four dogs crowded on the bed.

Kakashi nodded as he rubbed at his eyes tiredly.

"Well, hurry up. Breakfast is ready."

Kushina was gone in a flurry of red hair, carrying Pakkun off and out of the room, shutting the door behind her. He shook his head, taking a breath. The weather was going to be bad— his joints were aching more than they usually did. And when the man finally did manage to get out of bed, out into the morning chill despite the light of the sun coming in, Kakashi knew it was just going to be one of those days.

He padded over to the dresser, pulling clothes from drawers. For a split second, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror attached to the back of the door, paused, ran a hand over the scars marring his torso… Resolutely ignoring it, Kakashi made a note to take the mirror down.

He probably wouldn't. He never did.

It took a little bit of a struggle to get into his pants, but he managed like he always did, making sure not to get his head stuck in his turtleneck. Breakfast sounded pretty good. It was better than being stuck inside all the time.

-----

"Hey, hey, come on!"

Every bit of Naruto reminded him of the boy's father almost. They looked… similar. But the kid's attitude was every bit Kushina's. He was grinning and latching leashes onto the collars of some of the dogs, humming to himself.

Kakashi raised a brow as he finished wrapping his scarf around his neck and picking up a few leashes himself. "You're in a good mood, Naruto."

"You bet I am!" the boy responded, grin full of teeth. "Hinata-chan finally agreed to go out on a date with me!"

"Really?" Kakashi responded as he pulled open the door, with one hand, leashes wrapped securely around the other.

"Yeah! Oh, wait, should you be walking Bull? Can your arm handle that today?"

He waved the boy off with a lazy movement of his hand as he stepped out into the cold. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you."

No one except Naruto brought it up, really. Kakashi wasn't sure whether he should be grateful for that or not. It wasn't that the accident bothered him _now _—it'd been nearly two decade since— or that he was helpless with the matter. It was just that people didn't like talking about it. Kakashi didn't really like talking about it, either. He just preferred that he avoid trains and anything to do with them as much as humanly possible.

Unfortunately, ten minutes and snow started to flurry in, small bits, melting before they hit the ground, and they were turning back in companionable silence.

Kakashi leaned on the door when it was closed, slightly out of breath, sighing as he searched his pocket for his inhaler. The damn thing hurt his throat to use but it was either that or another trip to the hospital. Everyone in that place knew him by name, if not by word of mouth, and Kakashi found that he disliked that a lot of the time.

Breath relaxing, the man leaned for a moment longer before easing up, wincing slightly at his aching ribs. The fits usually didn't last long given time. Sometimes it was just the fact that he couldn't breathe and other times that his muscles couldn't handle the strain breathing caused.

Life sucked sometimes.

Another sigh left him as he made his way around the dogs, pausing in the doorway to the kitchen. Kushina was busy gathering up the grocery list from the fridge, smiling and ruffling her son's hair.

Kakashi glanced away.

Today was just one of those days.

-----

Very few people knew that Kushina had a slight case of road rage. And, as a result, if Naruto needed going anywhere with friends, Kakashi was usually goaded into taking him. But, seeing as the car door had decided it wanted to slam right on his bad leg, he was stuck sitting in the back seat, good hand gripping the 'oh-shit' handle attached to the door as Kushina cursed and sputtered obscenities at the driver in front of them that had stolen her parking spot. Driving with her was also where, rather unfortunately and to Iruka's horror, where Naruto had also learned many of the awful words children just shouldn't know. If he wasn't afraid Kushina would scream at him, Kakashi would have laughed at the situation.

Sometimes he thinks he lives with a bunch of nuts.

The better part of several minutes were spent finding a parking spot— Kakashi hobbled out at soon as he could, rubbing at his calf for a moment.

"Sorry about that," Kushina said with a smile, brushing hair from her face.

Kakashi gave her a neutral look and just nodded. This was _not_ how he'd wanted to spend his day off. At least the store wasn't crowded, he half thought, grabbing a basket for Naruto to push, the boy persisting that ramen would be good for lunch. He wondered down to the canned food isle, one of the clerks looking up at him and grinning.

"Well, haven't seen you around in a while," Genma said with a grin from around the toothpick in his mouth, pulling the usual bulk of canned dog food. "How's the physical therapy going? I heard from Rin you're getting a new liver soon."

Kakashi shrugged, taking the box. "I think the nurse is out to kill me. Complained about me being late again."

"Hey, what do you expect?"

"How has Obito been doing?"

Genma frowned and sighed, stalking more cans onto the shelves in front of him. "I dunno," he said. "Seems kinda distant these days. He was doing fine for a while, then had to go in 'cause he had some heart problems the other day."

Kakashi internally flinched.

"But he's okay now," the other man continued. He lifted his eyes, frowning. "You guys still not on speaking terms?"

"No…"

"Geez. I leave for a few years and you guys are still at each other's throats." An exasperated sigh, more clanking of cans onto the shelves. "You guys both… y'know… yeah. Anyways, I'll tell Rin you said hi."

"Sure," Kakashi answered. He gave a smile and tucked his cans under and arm, shuffling off to go find the rest of his dysfunctional family.

"Wait."

And turned, tilting his head slightly to regard Genma. The brunette smiled a little, the action falling slightly as he shrugged, a can in one hand.

"Sorry. I mean… I didn't get to say it, but I am. I'm sorry about the accident. I shouldn't have run off like that when it happened. Raidou was just," He stopped mid-sentence with a slight expression that Kakashi didn't think he could name. "He was important to me. But we're back, and I'm sorry."

Kakashi gave him another quick smile. "Sure. No harm done."

Genma's expression changed slightly. Still the same, unreadable one but somehow different. "So…" he began, fumbling with the can in his hand. "We should all get together again. Like old times, have dinner or something— I'll cook. What do you think, Kakashi?"

"I only have half of my internal organs, Genma. I don't think the rest of me could handle that."

"Alright, I'll make Asuma cook."

Kakashi waved at him slightly, just a hand lifting in to the air.

And walked along the isles for a while, until Kushina found him somewhere between the magazines and the cereal isles, dragging him back out the door. He had a thing about sensing bad days. He knew when they were going to come, and almost exactly when they were going to start. The minute they passed the automatic doors and Kushina bumped into someone in her hurry to go to the post office before too many people got there, and Kakashi _knew_ this was when the whole day was going to end up worse than it had already started.

The guy didn't look old, but his expression and grumbling was, and Kakashi, not really know what to expect from someone he'd never seen before who had suddenly _looked_ at him like he knew something… well, Kakashi was at a lost.

"Sakumo?" the man had asked.

The day was officially ruined.

_End: Chapter One_

Notes: (ugh!) Some of this was a bit forced, and I'm not happy with the first chapter at all. I'll get better at it though.


	2. Details

Notes: I was debating this installment for quite a long while, unsure of what I should do for the second chapter. It was actually to the point that I was rather frustrated with it. But, special thanks goes to wolvknight again for the simple fact that he still continues to encourage me, even when we haven't talked in a while. :D Go read his stuff! You know you wanna! But, shameless promotions aside, I finally broke down and got a new CD, and Immi is always a big inspiration for my writing. The title of this chapter is the title to one of Frou Frou's albums, simply because Frou Frou is awesome, and Immi's voice is truly inspirational.

Warnings! Semi non-graphic suicide in this chapter. Deal with it.

Disclaimer: No. I don't. Stop asking.

Chapter Two

_Details_

People didn't really know Hatake Sakumo all that well— the guy was a little bit of a prude in that aspect. Not that Jiraiya had been able to completely blame him for it. After all, being a homicide detective was difficult work, and murder wasn't an entirely unconceivable act. It'd taken a bit to figure it out, of course. Jiraiya had only ever met him once or twice at a particular bar that he happened to like somewhere down town of the more upscale areas. They were in the same field of work, but ran in entirely different circles, back then. But it'd been just a few times of drinks and talking for a bit before either of them knew what they were getting into, really.

"You're just a cop?" Sakumo had asked, hunched slightly over the bar counter, which was odd within itself. Sakumo was ageless. Timeless. He looked just as young as any of the newer rookies did. Just one of those types: messy silvered hair that fell around his head from scratching at it too much, dark eyes, a frame meant for sitting up straight and not slouching. It was hard to tell he was experienced.

Slouching just seemed like something so… _basic_ for him. He was so _rigid_ that it was difficult to remember that there was something human under the brain and calculative skills.

Professional. That's what Jiraiya had pegged the man for. Intensely professional.

"Yeah," Jiraiya had muttered around the lip of his glass, sighing slightly.

"You're too smart for that."

"I don't know… I kind of like it better this way. The work is terrible, but at least I'm not up at all hours. How's the wife?"

Sakumo had tilted his head, and it was an almost strange thing. But his thin, pale lips had quirked up at what must have been an amusing thought. Or maybe it wasn't. Jiraiya had been there to tape off the scene, and losing two close partners wasn't something that went easy. Jiraiya's seen it enough.

"She's pregnant," the man finally said.

Jiraiya had grinned, wide, and immediately called for a drink. "Lady, gimme the best you got! My friend here is going to need it!"

"Jiraiya—"

"No. I insist." He's laughed, slapping the man on his back. And although they'd been friends for a long time, now, since those fateful bar meetings years ago, Jiraiya knew enough about people to know how much a child could change their lives. "Trust me, this is going to be the most important time of your life. Fatherhood isn't anything to shrug off. Make sure to ask for more leave when you can."

Sakumo had tilted his head back to where it was before, sitting up more straight, and the edges of his lips quirking up the slightest bit. The kind of face no one could honestly resist. It'd seemed like something phenomenal. In all the time they'd spent, it'd always been Jiraiya laughing and talking loudly and trying to pick up the prettiest girl at the bar, while Sakumo just hung back and sat like a rather large lump on a log. But to see him smile and laugh for the first time was just something that had needed celebrating then. Jiraiya remembered drinking with him until they were both in a stupor, and the taxi that took them back to their respective homes was full of laughter and drunken conversation.

Of course, Jiraiya wasn't entirely sure if that had made him better or not. The guy really was nice. It just took some poking and prodding until the soft insides were accessible. Sakumo was just hard to understand sometimes. He never voiced much. But he was a good man and was going to make a good father.

"You know…" Sakumo's head tilted back in the seat, turning slightly to regard Jiraiya. His face was neutral but his eyes were too sober and too drunk at the same time. "Do you honestly think Orochimaru was capable of something like that? He was always… nice."

Jiraiya hummed, mind clogged and his gut hot from the liquor. "I dunno… he just kinda ran off, so I guess it's suspicious."

"You should go after him."

"Huh?"

They looked at each other and blinked, and the drunken half-smile was back on Sakumo's face, his guard down enough to allow it. "Go after him," he repeated. "You're in love with him, right?"

"How in th' hell can ya talk… ugh… straight after that much?"

But it hadn't mattered.

-----

When Jiraiya had woken up with a particularly nasty hangover, he found a note on the table from Tsunade next to some of those weird-tasting brand muffins that she liked and he'd always eaten anyways. At fist he didn't want to believe it. Her? Leaving the hospital? Sure, she had a thing about blood, but she was a good surgeon. And she'd done this sort of thing before… Only, Shizune had shown up. He hadn't known what to do with her, or what to say, or even how to understand it at all.

Jiraiya ended up fallowing Sakumo's advice— saying his good-byes.

Minato had clung to his arm, looking at him like he'd betrayed him.

"You said you would stay!"

"Sorry kid. Take care of your girlfriend, okay?"

And that had been that.

He went on search of answers, he supposed he knew somewhere in the back of his mind, if only a little, that he knew he'd never find. It was as if Orochimaru had disappeared off the face of the planet. And Jiraiya just couldn't bring himself to go back and look at Sakumo's disappointed face, or the blonde kid that visited from down the street… those were kind people that didn't need his troubles.

-----

"Sakumo?" Jiraiya squinted at him, arms folding against his chest as the chill set in. People were bustling around them, giving them odd looks; Jiraiya didn't care. "What in the world happened to your eye?"

"Pardon?"

And, slowly, it began to make sense.

He was remembering a man from decades ago.

This wasn't him at all.

And it was the red-haired woman that gawked at him, slender hands gripping her groceries to the point that her knuckles were white. "Jiraiya! What are you _doing_ here? I thought you'd left for good!"

Sometimes, it was easier just to let things fall apart rather than try and salvage them.

Jiraiya found himself wondering how everything could just go from bad to absolutely mind-numbing _worse_ in less than twenty-four hours of being back in town. But, when he glanced at Sakumo-but-not-Sakumo, he found that, in his life, in his age, anything and everything was bound to do that. Never mind that the blonde was shouting and that, quite suddenly, the Sakumo look-alike had to scuttle aside and use his inhaler, clutching at his chest and clutching to the redhead's shoulder. She shoved her groceries at the blonde, telling him to run and put those in the car, quick, while she called for help.

"Kakashi! Another attack?"

Jiraiya was numbed by it all. He was looking in, detached, like when the TV was on and there was nothing really to watch. He supposed it was the part of him that still _needed_ to help others that lead him to catching the Sakumo look-alike's arm, the woman smoothing the man's hair from his face and running thin fingers over his too pale face and almost half-lidded expression as he gasped and choked for air.

"Someone! Call an ambulance!"

Confusion exploded out— Jiraiya was steadying the guy while she was running into the store. People were staring and calling out, a few pulling phones from pockets, and Jiraiya just still felt so quietly detached from it all. Especially when those dark eyes were just staring at him. The guy wasn't shaking, though, not anymore. He was just sucking in air through his nose, as slowly as it seemed possible for him, in and out. It made Jiraiya wondered what in the hell he'd just gotten himself into.

-----

To say that _no one_ knew Hatake Sakumo was a bit of an understatement.

Kakashi knew him.

His father had always been a man who stood up for the weak, for the wronged. He solved people's deaths with his thoughts and actions and would always have time to come home and tuck him in at night. Or… well, _used_ to. Kakashi knows that much about him, at the least. Knows that he was one of the good guys in the cartoons on Saturday. With large, strong hands and a quiet voice that said that rules of the law were in place because it kept people safe. Sure, he was a bit distant, but when you worked like his father did, anyone would be.

It's been on a night like that, when Sakumo would walk in and shrug out of his coat, the rainy kind of days.

"Tadaima…" the man murmured.

Kakashi scrambled from the kitchen table, feeling like he should smile at least, but finding it a bit hard when he father just looked too tired. "Okaeri," he answered.

Sakumo's lips tilted up slightly as he placed a hand on the boy's head, ruffling the light hair there. "Did you do well in school?"

"I put the report card on the table."

"So I take it home schooling has been better?"

Kakashi nodded silently, sighing as the hand on his head slipped to hold the side of his face for a brief second.

Well, he thought, Father didn't _need_ words. Sure, he was only five, but that didn't mean he hadn't learned to take things in stride. Those actions always spoke more of what was on his mind than what mere words could do…

The Hatake house was much too large for just two people— almost traditional in a sense, since it was a rather old one, with the main room sprawling out from the door and smaller compartments leading back from hallways past the somewhat small kitchen. Most of them weren't really used. They just sat there. And when his father flopped onto the leather sofa (it seemed so new, but it wasn't, not really), Kakashi just watched for a moment.

"Sensei decided to bring in Obito to our class."

"Did he now? Are you being nice to him?"

Kakashi scoffed, crossing his arms over his small chest, but he didn't really say anything about it. Instead, he asked, "Tou-san, did work go well?" It's a formality that had been drilled into him since he was able to talk.

Sakumo looked at him, blinked slowly, and then just sighed and shook his head.

"No," he whispered. "No it didn't, Kakashi."

"Did something happen?"

But there wasn't a reply.

Kakashi didn't press it, even while something like child-curiosity rose up in his heart, swelling, a little bird wanting out of its cage. It took a bit to squelch it down. He managed, though, and wandered off past the kitchen. He trailed small, pale fingers across the table, over the chairs, pondering them for a moment— his sensei had been sitting at one of them, and had fallen asleep until Rin-chan poked him awake. He didn't really know what to make of Obito yet. He'd tracked in mud when he'd forgotten to take of his shoes, and it was so _rude_ of him to that!

When it was raining, the boy wandered around the house. Sometimes Nana, the family dog, would trail after. She was a good dog. She'd follow him to a small room that he wasn't supposed to go into but did anyways. Only sometimes. That night, he was alone.

His child hands pulled open the door to the small room at the very end of the hallway, his feet padding across the tetami when he walked in. It was dark. Lightning, quiet, without the rain at that moment, flashed and wreaked light havoc across it.

Sakumo had simply packed all of her stuff, even though she's been dead for years now.

Kakashi pulled himself up to the drawer, reaching with tipped toes to the midway one, searching for the book and flashlight. It was an old album, of all the people from his family. His mother had been keeping it. Then he curled up on the futon that smelled vaguely like what he supposed she had once been like, warm, under the hand-stitched blanket, flipping through it with only his flashlight and the lightening silently attacking the sky as company. Kakashi would trail fingers over her picture, the one where she's holding Father's hand and laughing and smiling. But, oddly enough, when he tries to entirely recall her when he closes his eyes, he could never seem to remember.

He fell asleep like that, just like he always did. And if his father was angry with him, he never showed it.

-----

"Kakashi?"

"…mgh?"

Maybe that was how all children fell asleep. Kakashi was never sure. He was dreaming of something nice, he knows, half awake as he was, and he thinks that maybe that voice was just something he was thinking of at the time. Or maybe because it was hot. Spring usually was sometimes. Kakashi stirred for a second, blinking at the sudden early morning sunlight warming him in the face, twisted and buried and cocooned in the white and grey and red material.

The picture album fell to the floor, along with the run-down flashlight, clattering a bit, and the early morning silence swallowing it up.

Kakashi rubbed at his eyes for a moment. He felt… funny. Not in a good way. Maybe it was the fact that Minato-sensei couldn't cook at all, and if Kushina-san hadn't saved them from a ramen-y fate they all would have starved.

Was ramen supposed to mix with milk?

Yawning, the boy pulled the album from the floor and left it on the bed as he walked out. He'd put it back later.

"Tou-san?" he called. "Tou-san, I'm sorry for sleeping in there again… Tou-san?"

There are two different kinds of terrible silences.

One was the kind that was awkward and terrible and happened in movies or when adults talked about some things. It was the kind that ate up at words and feelings until it left only a hole. The other was the kind that didn't do any of that. A kind of early-morning thing, only more… different. Whole. Intact. But what it did was making things a little too spooky for anyone's liking. It sat heavy on the ears, waiting, watching. If silence could have eyes, that would be the one. Kakashi wasn't familiar with it, though. He just walked down slowly, the walls dark, and Nana was scratching at the door to the kitchen.

Kakashi stopped to pat her on the head. "Shh…" he hissed, pressing his finger to his lips and then his ear to the door.

_Drip… drip…_

The boy blinked. _Did father leave the facet on a little?_ His hand pressed to the edge of the sliding door, and his heart had the curious bird feeling again, like last night, only with a little edge to it. "Tou-san?"

Kakashi had looked at the kitchen.

The table and chairs hand been shoved up against one side, near the stove, but in a methodical, neat kind of way. Which was the least of the boy's concerns. It was in the center of the hardwood floor that was drawing him in, and it made him scramble for it, hands hovering over his father's down-faced form. Red was pooled under him, and Kakashi's feet slipped in it— he hadn't seen it and it made his entire body seize up with sudden panic. He knew what red meant. He's seen case photos before.

Sakumo was face down in it, and it took all of the boy's strength to roll him over, and the man stayed in that same curled position.

Kakashi wasn't sure what happened after that.

Just that he sat there, staring, not really thinking of anything at all. It didn't occur to him of the time or that maybe breakfast was in order or that it was Friday and that his sensei would be coming. He didn't even know what to call the mess that had spilled out of his father's body. But what Kakashi _did_ remember was the door opening and a voice. He remembered Minato —he was so far away, blue-blue eyes so concerned, and his voice like honey dripping down on Kakashi's world and like his teacher's hair— gripping him by his arms and hauling him up. He remembered being held, unsure of what to do.

"Oh, Kakashi, I'm so sorry… so sorry… I should have seen it. I should have… I…"

He'd never really cried before. But when Minato started, Kakashi found that he could stop for a long time. Could do much but cling to fists full of his teacher's shirt, shaking, and wanting nothing more than to be back in the room where his mother lived.

Funerals were unfamiliar to him, with no actual immediate family. His father's had been small, and a week after it all. Whatever happened, it didn't even leave Hatake Sakumo with an officer's sending. Nothing. And he'd stood there for so long that he wondered, if maybe, it was just a bad dream. Suicide? Killing yourself? What did those things matter? What had they meant that it was a disgrace? Why was he the only one there?

But, when Kakashi realized it, no, that hadn't been a dream, and that he was just unlucky in life.

-----

The attack was sudden.

Kakashi still had them, sometimes, and thinking about his father was something that he hadn't done in a very long time. There were a lot of feelings that were mixed in with hit. Hate, anger, resentment, agony. Feelings that were hard on his delicate nervous system, at his lungs locked up, his body twisting in on itself painfully. Sometimes these things happened. Kakashi could accept that.

So he held onto what he could to keep standing, his bad leg cramping up, sucking in air greedily until Genma came rushing out, and the man he was looking at… no, the face wasn't _that_ old, and odd how he could think of such things when he was in such a aweful fit of pain. Genma pried him off the man, and the only thing Kakashi could think of was, _His hair reminds me of snow…_

The ambulance ride wasn't all that great.

Genma was riding in the back with him, gripping his hand as the medics stuck a needle in him. Kakashi supposed it was more for the brunette's comfort than his own.

That was what Kakashi hated most about hospitals. Couldn't they think of other ways to give people medicine? Did they really need to stick you with sharp objects?

"Sorry…" he found himself muttering when his throat stopped seizing up. Ah, good, they were using a sedative.

Genma looked somehow unsurprised. "Hey, it's no big deal. Raido gets 'em sometimes. Fits, I mean. Kushina-san's taking the kid home; she was talking to that guy who was hanging on to you."

"W-who—" An oxygen mask was fitted over his face, the medics reprimanding him with stern looks.

Kakashi didn't bother trying to reply. He was tired, actually. Exhausted.

"Idiot… You and Obito, man. I swear you guys are going to put me in the grave before I even get to fifty."

That had been simply that.

Kakashi had turned away from Genma, his hand going numb from how hard the brunette was clutching it. He didn't mind. Somehow, even after so long, it was good to see him. Maybe today was just too much to ask for a break. Or maybe it was because the details had ended up blurred in his head. Either way, the sirens were giving Kakashi a headache.

He hoped Rin would be at the hospital again. Her smile would do him a world of good right now.

_End: Chapter Two_

Notes: Again, like the last chapter, some of it was a bit forced. I'll have to find me a beta soon and redo these last couple of chapters. Writing multi-chaptered things is a little difficult, and I'll give you all fair warning that there are probably only three or so chapters left. But, at the least, I'm hoping to strike up a different sort of romance. But, hey! I almost doubled the chapter length!

Feedback is much appreciated!


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